Switching Sides
by jadey36
Summary: Gisborne has some startling news.


**Disclaimer: **Robin Hood belongs to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended. All rights reserved.

**Author's Note: **written for Hoodland Crazy Fics Challenge.

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><p><strong>Switching Sides<strong>

Smug is the first word that comes to mind, as the sheriff watches his master-of-arms, Guy of Gisborne, stride into the hall.

"What is it, Gisborne?" the sheriff asks. "Finally struck gold with the leper? Given her the right hair ornament, the right necklace, or the right stallion, perhaps?"

"Better than that," Guy says, lips curling in a self-satisfied grin.

"Better? Let me see. You've got Hood trapped up a tree or down a well?"

"No." Guy walks around the map table occupying the middle of the hall, tap tapping it with his fingertips, clearly enjoying the sheriff's agitation.

"Oh, my God, Gisborne. He's not...you haven't," the sheriff splutters, leaping from his chair. "Hood's dead?"

"It's not Hood and it's not Marian."

"But what could possibly be better than a dead outlaw? Well, come on, spit it out, before I explode."

Guy glances at the walls and ceiling, seemingly content with the idea of the sheriff's innards and other bodily parts plastering them. "You know," he says, stopping by the sheriff's oak desk and lightly caressing the sheriff's half-drunk goblet of wine, "I shall so miss your hospitality."

"What do you mean, miss my hospitality? Are you going somewhere, Gisborne?"

"Yes, I am going up. Up where you can never touch me again. Up where I shall have everything my heart has ever desired." Guy raises the wine goblet to his lips and then changes his mind and sets it back on the table. He sits in the sheriff's vacant chair with the air of a man who has found his place in the world.

"For God's sake, Gisborne, stop talking in riddles, and tell me what it is that has your usually scowling features so alarmingly rearranged. And get out of my chair!"

Guy strokes the arm of the sheriff's velvet covered chair and then stands.

"Well?" the sheriff demands.

"I think you might want to be seated for this," Guy tells him, flourishing a hand towards the plush chair.

The sheriff is instantly fearful, picturing Prince John and an enormous army bearing down on Nottingham, demanding money with menaces. Then he relaxes. Gisborne has as much to lose as he does. It is probably something trivial – a new leather shop opened in Nottingham, or a place selling special Robin Hood voodoo dolls.

"Well," the sheriff says, settling into his chair. "What is it? I haven't got all day."

Guy produces a piece of parchment.

"What's that? A love letter from the leper?" the sheriff sneers.

"Hardly," Guy says. "This is a letter informing me that King Richard has been laid low with a malady that may well see him dead before the month is out. This," says Guy, waving the parchment's waxy royal seal at the sheriff, "is my future."

"Why, this is wonderful news, Gisborne. Certainly, it will save us the time and trouble of having to kill the king. Wait a moment! What do you mean _your _future?"

"This piece of parchment contains a declaration that King Richard wishes to make provision for all his offspring in the event of his death."

"What rot, Gisborne. The king doesn't have any children, at least none that we know of."

"Actually, he does."

"What?"

"It appears that my mother, Ghislaine, had a brief dalliance with the king when she lived in France, shortly before she met and married my father.

"Gisborne. Are you telling me what I think you're telling me?"

"Yes. I am the son of the Richard the Lionheart."

The sheriff snatches up his wine, downing it so fast he chokes. He bangs the near-empty goblet on the table. "My God, Gisborne. Do you know what this means?"

"It means I will be rich and powerful." Guy returns to the map table, runs a hand across several English counties. "Normandy has a much better ring to it than Sussex, wouldn't you say?"

"It means weare rich, Gisborne," the sheriff says, as though Guy has not spoken. "It means we can stop messing about squeezing taxes out of these blithering peasants and get on with enjoying the spoils we have been striving so hard for." He rubs his hands together. "We must move fast, Gisborne. We must send the king a gift – a don't get well gift, I think. Yes and we—"

"This," Guy says, slapping his hand down on the map table, cracking Lincoln and half of York, "does not concern you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I believe I am the heir here, not you."

"But Gisborne, surely you would not forget me, _me_. Think of all the things I've done for you."

"What have you ever done for me? You belittle me at every turn. You rubbish me at every opportunity you get. No. This is to be mine and mine alone, and to start with, I shall act in the way King Richard would expect any son of his to act. I will prove myself worthy of my inheritance."

"How? By sending the king a few trinkets, by writing him some lying words about how well you have served his country in his absence?"

"No. By switching sides."

"What?"

"By allying myself with the one man who holds more favour with the King of England than almost anyone in the land: Robin Hood."

There is a crash and a thud.

"Did someone call?"

"Hood!" the sheriff growls. He turns to Gisborne. "Well, don't just stand there – get him!"

"I think not."

"What!"

Robin lowers his bow. "Let me see that parchment," he demands.

Guy hands it over and Robin reads, says, "I hope for all our sakes the king recovers, but, in the meantime..." He reaches into his shirt and pulls out one of his gang's distinctive tags. "How about it, Gisborne?"

After a moment's hesitation, Guy reaches out and takes the outlaw tag, looping it over his head and tucking it into his leather doublet, out of sight.

"No. No," the sheriff splutters, stamping his foot. "You cannot be serious."

The sheriff's guards burst into the room. "My Lord?" they chorus.

"Take him," Guy says, unsheathing his sword and pointing it at the sheriff, "to the dungeons."

"But...but...you can't. You—"

"Take him away!" Guy roars. "Now!"

"Wait!" Robin orders, grinning when the guards do as he says. "Perhaps you'd care to join us," he says, waggling his outlaw tag at the sheriff.

"You must be joking! I'd sooner take up embroidery." The Sheriff of Nottingham shifts uncomfortably, regretting his choice of words, sincerely hoping his policy of stripping highborn prisoners of their clothing is not about to be put to the test.

Robin nods at the guards and they grab hold of the sheriff and drag him from the hall, ignoring his threats of chopping off their heads and feeding their entrails to the castle dogs.

Guy laughs, tops up the sheriff's goblet with wine and offers a further goblet to Robin. "To the king's forthcoming generosity," he says, clanging his goblet against Robin's.

"Long live the king," Robin grins.

Guy snatches Robin's wine from his hand and orders the outlaw out the window he came in by. Trust Hood to put a downer on his otherwise perfect day.

**The End**


End file.
